


Summer Dreams

by niloofar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Awkward Romance, Courtship, Developing Relationship, Headcanon, Idiots in Love, If they can figure it out, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Somewhat, Spoilers, potentially
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22999906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niloofar/pseuds/niloofar
Summary: Claude dreams. He dreams of Almyran weddings, of a poet's hand stained with ink writing love letters, of a handsome, foreign prince on a noble white horse. He dreams of everything he can't have in this lifetime. But Dimitri gives: he gives his heart, carefully peeling away the thorns around it. So Claude gives him something too. He gives him a secret.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58





	Summer Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> dmcl was actually my first fe3h ship and at last i am getting to them

It started as an arrangement of convenience. 

Claude had been thinking of Fodlan’s people and all their dull ways of courtesy, and how it would be preferable to discuss matters of politics not so formally but seriously enough for it to count for something, if only to answer to the Regent’s demands of his “courtly conduct.” Dimitri had been thinking about… well, Claude isn’t _entirely_ sure what compelled him to maintain their arrangement; the prince, in a bewildering way, is both painfully earnest and frustratingly elusive with his thoughts. There are things that Claude knows about him, and then there are the things that he _thinks_ he knows about him. 

In a display of unguarded honesty, Dimitri admitted to having a similar view of him, on the sixth night they met for a late meeting in the gardens, warm herbal drinks between them. He said it while standing under the shade of the gazebo, and he could’ve blended with the shadows were it not for the royal blue of his cape, and the golden shade of his hair, and the warm light that set his eyes brighter than ever, cheeks a pale pink that contrasted with the pale expanse of his skin.

Claude thought, “I’ve never seen someone so pretty before”, but that was fair enough. He’d seen plenty of pretty people, and he’d thought the same of Marianne and Petra. Dimitri _does_ stand out among all the handsome people he’d seen, Claude can admit that, because Claude isn’t one to deny reality. He doesn’t admit it _out loud_ , though, because Dimitri might find it weird, and it would change their dynamic. This careful balance in their nightly conversations, tiptoeing along subjects of politics and diving headfirst into others. Dimitri with a new story about his childhood skirmishes, straying far from speaking about the year the Tragedy took place. Claude’s more exotic tales, carefully alluding to Almyra without ever directly speaking of it. The fog that keeps their respective scars hidden clears more and more with every night they manage to catch time to spend together. Claude notices, but he does nothing about it.

Because he’s careful, he knows, he won’t slip. He’s too far past the point of being swayed by warmth nonexistent in the weather, but filling the atmosphere, the short gap between them across the small tea tables of the gardens. By a shocked chortle and a twinkle in finely-shaped eyes, liquid blue like the Almyran sea under moonlight. Dimitri comes to him one night, cape forgotten and hair askew, sweat rolling down from his brow to his chin. He’d told him of a training session with one of his classmates gone too long, and Claude didn’t ask about the slight tremor in his hands that didn’t leave that night, or the blooming bruise on his jawline. He comes back with a matching one three days later instead, from a mission that went down just a little violently. 

And Dimitri _said_ things, especially by way of concern for Claude’s health, standing up from his chair to greet him under the gazebo, only to stiffen with alarm. 

Claude feels a little resentful. In hindsight, that night had been the one that shoved him right off the tightrope he’d been stealthily dancing along, for two moons and a half. It had been long fingers, no less gentle even with the layer of a cold gauntlet covering them, backs to the tender skin of Claude’s bruised jaw in a featherlight touch. That same hand, jerked back and clenched, Dimitri’s mouth hanging then tightening. He looked embarrassed at his daring action, and yet that wasn’t what he’d apologised for. Instead he’d said, “I’m sorry, I must’ve hurt you.” and it wasn’t until then that Claude realised he’d _flinched_. But that thought didn’t stay for long. Dimitri’s face slowly crumbled with guilt, and it was a little like watching a statue of diamond shatter before his eyes. Hard and unyielding, beautiful as it dissolved into imperfection. 

Claude, like every other young man, likes beautiful things. And he’s a bit more selectively foolish than others, so he reached out to touch that beautiful thing in front of him. _It’s dangerous_ , his mind said, _you’ll cut your hand._ Still, he reached.

His hand touched Dimitri’s clenched one. And it didn’t bleed. 

The world didn’t shatter. The breeze kept blowing and didn’t turn into a tornado, the moon didn’t fall from its spot in the skies, the sun didn’t shine were it wasn’t meant to and the stars didn’t rain down on them in fiery meteors. 

It was a simple touch. Dimitri didn’t look like he thought of it that way, and Claude didn’t feel like it was either. Not with the knowledge that he’d _slipped._

He swallowed. _This is a mistake._

But he’s not one to ignore it.

He tried to mend it instead, which meant that he didn’t flinch again, kept his palm curled around Dimitri’s armoured fist. There is no skin to skin contact, and he thinks vaguely that he’s grateful for it. He had no thoughts to spare for how warm Dimitri’s hands would be. 

Not in that moment, anyway. 

“You didn’t hurt me.” He said, and punctuated it with a wide grin. _That_ hurt, but it’s not like any bones are _broken_ , and even if they were, it won’t be too unfamiliar of a pain. Dimitri stared at their joined hands, lips still pressed together tightly. Claude sighed, “Now, your highness, what did I say about courtly manners,?”

“That you find them dull.” The tight clench of the prince’s palm loosened a little beneath his palm, tension seeping out of him a bit, “And you didn’t _say_ it. It was… implied.”

“And so it’s all good, yes?” Claude replied with a smile, and Dimitri’s shoulders set in their usual straight line, alert but not uncomfortable. He tried to smile back, and it came a little lopsided; there was something dancing just behind the veil of his pointed stare, teasing Claude with alluring promises, tempting him to come closer, to ask. It’s precisely that temptation that keeps Claude in his place. Close, but not inappropriately so. 

The hand-holding is probably somewhere along the lines of inappropriate though. Claude took a moment to entertain himself with the amusing mental image of Faerghus’ lofty nobles tripping over their feet in their panic to separate their precious, precious prince from an Almyran scoundrel, before confronting the distressing truth: the hand-holding feels really nice. 

Which is why he had to stop it. Any moment now.

He didn’t.

Their joined hands stayed firm between them, neither making the first move. The first move to… _something_ , something to break this stalled moment. Claude stared at their hands and Dimitri stared at him, and it was like the very air was shifting around them, the breeze settling, the world stilling, growing quiet and hiding from the privacy of their moment. _Their_ moment. Gods, _they were having a moment_ \--

And then he sneezed. 

The shattering of the still atmosphere around them was disorienting enough that Claude didn’t even find it in himself to laugh when Dimitri quite literally _jumped_ , taking a step back and looking down at him with wide eyes. The movement effectively broke the hold their hands had. He spoke after a beat of silence, “You… are you sick?” 

The moment was gone, but the strange prickling sensation, just under his skin, wasn't. Bringing his hand up, Claude held it against his mouth, fake-coughing through a nervous laugh, “I… don't think so? I wasn't when I came out here, anyway.”

“We should go inside.” Dimitri stated decisively, entire posture straightening into that of the golden prince, responsible and unwavering, “Before your condition worsens; There’s a cold breeze tonight.” 

It was, admittedly, too disappointing of a transition. The kind that always left a sore taste in Claude’s mouth whenever they parted while Dimitri was that way. He preferred it more when he slipped inside his room with Dimitri’s helplessly smiling face his last glimpse of him. Unable to help himself, he teased, “Not looking very affected, your highness.”

Dimitri shook his head, “Of course, it’s a lot colder in Faerghus. But this much should be chilly, for a southern friend.”

“Then keep your southern friend warm.” Claude replied breezily, sighing. Much as he wanted to be a little stubborn, just for the sake of it, he was inclined to agree with the prince. Even if it was a small cold, he would rather avoid sickness. He glanced briefly towards the table, finding it, thankfully, barren. It seemed like Dimitri had come empty handed tonight, even though he usually brought a small plate of treats with him, if only to have something to fidget with when conversation dulled between them, Claude suspected. That never happened, so far, so he wondered what the point is. 

Next to him, Dimitri had grown quiet, so he turned back to him, finding him with a thoughtful expression on his face, “Mitya?”

Dimitri blinked. A small dusting of pink settled on his cheeks, like the first time Claude had teasingly, deliberately used the nickname. Claude smiled at him coyly, to cover up the fact that it had slipped him. 

“No, I was thinking… you were right.” At Claude’s confused stare, the prince elaborated as he reached with his hands, carefully undoing his cape, “I should’ve helped keep you warm; it’s a considerably long walk from here to our rooms, and even inside the cathedral should be cold right now.” 

Before Claude could even react, in a sweeping, efficient motion, Dimitri had the fine blue fabric around his shoulders, pulling firmly and settling it, hands lingering on the other boy’s arms. He paused, then smiled a bit, hesitant. Hands falling to his sides, he cleared his throat, “I do not suppose something this light will do, but it should be somewhat helpful, until we get to our rooms.” 

“Uh.” that was all that left Claude. He stood for a moment, too aware of the heat currently crawling up his neck, until his brain at last decided to catch up with him. He swallowed the blush down with sheer willpower; it helped that the golden opportunity for teasing was so tempting in this instance. It wouldn’t look good to stutter through it.

With a theatrically loud gasp, he clutched his chest, “Be careful there, my prince! Any moment now, and I’ll think you’re going to sweep me off my feet and walk to the altar!”

“Claude…” Dimitri said, an attempt at being reproachful as the corners of his lips wobbled, wanting to smile even as he tried to gather himself. Claude was victorious in the end, anyway, as the prince shook his head, smiling openly, cheeks turned darker, the red stark on his high cheekbones, against the pallor of his skin. It was tight-lipped, but not in the false ways that politicians smiled in; it had a charm to it, that smile, shakey from long-taught propriety yet helplessly honest. Claude allowed himself only a moment’s indulgence in the sight of it, before he swiveled on one foot, a little twirl in the motion, his hands reaching to grip Dimitri’s cape to keep it from falling off his shoulders. 

“Well, shall we be off?” he took a step forward, throwing a sly glance over his shoulder, “Or will you really carry me?”

Dimitri fell into step with him easily, “Only if you need it.” 

_But what if I want it?_ He wisely bit back those words. There was something strange tonight. That he knew, but as they walked, the atmosphere was… normal. There was nothing that suggested the surreal way the night had gone, except for the blue cape he had on his shoulders, which he bravely resisted the urge to touch any more than necessary. His fingers brushed it when he brought a hand up to cover his mouth to sneeze again, aware of the concerned glance Dimitri sent in his direction. Then he held it when they stood in front of his room, loosely folding it and handing it back with a smile, “Thanks, your princiliness. Once again, your gallantry comes to the rescue of us plebeians.”

Dimitri sighed, choosing to ignore the playful remark and replying seriously instead, “You should go see Professor Manuela tomorrow. It won’t be good if your condition worsens,” he paused, then added pointedly, “Especially as you’re a lord and a house leader.”

Claude sneakered, not missing the jab, and decided to return it with a physical one, bumping his fist against the other’s arm, “Sure, sure, your motherliness--” and his voice successfully died -- he didn’t actually _choke,_ thankfully, though it was a close thing -- when Dimitri caught his wrist firmly, the stern look on his face morphing into a displeased frown quickly.

“I mean it, Claude. Don’t let yourself fall ill just for the sake of playing a joke.”

It was the second time that night that they’d touched so openly that night, the second time the prince looked at him with those eyes, darkened from holding a secret hidden behind a mask. Claude knows that kind of look by heart. He’s seen it often. In his own reflection in the mirror even, a familiar weariness gracefully borne. Dimitri’s grip was so carefully maintained, not so tight that Claude won’t be able to break free if he really wanted to, but a firm hold that could not possibly be ignored. 

The goddess herself knows Claude couldn’t have ignored it, either way. He was conscious of it, so terribly conscious. 

He swallowed. His throat felt dry, to the point where he felt parched all of a sudden. Was it the cold? Has it worsened already? Dimitri was right, it _was_ colder in the hallways. He should go inside his room, slide under his blankets, have some rest, and not think about a prince’s palm around his wrist, or wonder about how much better it would’ve felt if he’d forgone the gloves and the gauntlets that night. 

No, absolutely none of that mess.

“I…” he started, and this time his voice _did_ crack, did the goddess have something against him tonight? Fortunately, Dimitri didn’t seem to pay attention, waiting patiently for him to continue, his scowl persistent. It was a bit of a good look on him, actually, but not when it was directed at Claude. And not when he was holding Claude by the hand. It was doing odd things to him.

“I will.” He finally finished, a pathetically short sentence for how long it had taken him to get it out. His face felt hot, and never in his life had he ever _prayed_ for a fever, so that he won’t have to confront that heat for what it was. Claude wanted, _tried_ , to get something out, a playful little _“oh, what a prince charming you are!”_ but under the weight of that stare, with his bare wrist warm in Dimitri’s grip, he feared it would be less teasing and more of a genuine compliment, at best, and _actual_ swooning, at worst. 

Who was he, really? Who was Dimitri to have such earnest eyes when he hid so many secrets, offering such a kind grip when he could break Claude’s whole arm with a flick of his wrist? Who was the prince, to make that all _get_ to him?

Oh, goddess, he was _Dimitri_ , with his eyes gentled to lighter pools of blue, a pale pink dusting across his cheeks, just enough to give them some charming color, his bottom lip pulled momentarily between his teeth before he slowly lowered Claude’s hand, then peeled his fingers away, the brush of the tip of his ring finger against the inside of Claude’s wrist one last electrifying touch.

“I…” Dimitri began, starting to look sheepish. Evidently, the scolding had escaped him, an unplanned extension of stern concern, which… made it all the more touching, really. An outburst was always a far more honest expression of one’s feelings than well-mannered etiquette.

“I apologise.” Dimitri continued, finally, filling in the silence Claude had allowed so he could gather his thoughts, “I didn’t mean to come forward so aggressively. But you.... You always seem to brush away due concern for yourself. I don’t understand why you do it. Between the two of us, we both know that duty is limitless, but our health isn’t.”

It was hypocrisy, for _Dimitri_ to say those words, but it was only of the sweetest kind, if hypocrisy could be described as such.

The thought lingered. Claude abset-mindedly leaned against his door, smiling faintly and watching the prince glance about with uncertainty. He needed a moment, to decide how to respond to _that,_ whether he should point out the obvious, if he should ask Dimitri, half-serious, half-teasing, about his self-awareness. _Would that he could_ , honestly. But in the face of such open emotion… Claude isn’t cold. The passionate heat of Almyran summer clings to him; he could recite romantic folk songs by heart, learned them from back when he would hang about while the travelling bards walked through the streets with their loud tambourines and even louder cheer. 

Maybe, one day, when he’s there again, he will write a poem about a prince of eternal winter, who fell in love under a gazebo’s shade with an eastern handmaiden. Or a princess. Or the prince is a princess and the handmaiden is a travelling merchant. He’ll write it down under a native name, a name scrawled in bright red among distant monochrom memories.

The thought made his lips quirk up higher. It was a sense of calmness he seldom felt at the thought of his homeland, which usually formed an itching sensation of restlessness under his skin, not wholly unpleasant, but not a welcome sensation either. Perhaps it was because it dealt with the happily ever _after_.

Just for that, he decided to give the prince reprieve. 

“Your highness,” he said, and was only slightly amused when Dimitri’s attention snapped towards him, flighty and a little startled. Mostly, he felt endeared. A little like he was floating on a cloud, or how he imagined floating on a cloud would be like. “Five… six… seven years from now, maybe, however long it is, you’re going to be an overworked king with bags under your eyes, and I’ll show up at your doorstep to tell you “remember when you said that?” and then you’ll have no choice but to leave your royal desk to entertain yours truly.” 

For a moment, Dimitri simply looked shocked. Then, unbidden, he laughed. 

It seemed to sound lovelier every time Claude heard it. Perhaps it was because it sounded more true, more liberated, every time. Even when he was keeping it quiet, like then, it was _free,_ like a gentle gust of spring winds through an open window. 

“Oh, Claude,” the prince said, once he’d quieted down, the laughter leaving behind a wide smile in its wake, “I will be happy to receive you, always. Five, six, seven… however many years from now.” 

It was the kind of pleasant promises that they were making more and more, as of late, but should probably think better of. _Claude_ should think better of it, if no one else. But there was a warmth settling on his cheeks, not burning hot, but simply pleasant. It made his head swim a little, and isn’t that a fever? It’s probably a fever. But he was smiling in spite of it, smiling as he indulged them both. After all, Claude so often partakes in humour, or at least what he himself finds humorous, and he indulges the assumptions of others, and his uncle’s expectations of him. He indulges a lot of things, for personal gain and for the sake of others, but never had he indulged his heart. Never did he think he would have to, though he’d never been so arrogant as to think himself immune to these things. These sparks of heat, flickering truths shyly hiding away behind white lies, the thrill of hanging on the precipice of something dangerous, enjoying the air as it blew against your face even when you knew how painful it would be when you fall.

And they will fall. Sooner or later. Either in a bed of clouds or the fires of Aillel or endlessly deep seas. 

It’s alright, still. Claude tells himself this, thinks, _I’m good at escaping sticky situations, anyway._

But those are thoughts to suffer through later. 

In the silence of the hallways, Claude’s short, small laugh was a fleeting thing, sweeter than he’d heard himself being for a while now. The click of his door opening as he stepped in sounded impossibly louder, in comparison.

“Sweet dreams, Prince Dimitri.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this WILL have a second chapter, im sorry to say


End file.
